


Love Letters

by Cibee (Cibeeeee)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Draco publish a book and it's all his cringy diary and letter, Fluff, Getting Together, M/M, Not Beta Read, The whole world now knows his crush on Harry potter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-20
Updated: 2019-12-20
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:14:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21875737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cibeeeee/pseuds/Cibee
Summary: there are letters Draco never sends
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 22
Kudos: 240





	Love Letters

**Author's Note:**

> [inspired by this art ](https://pan-da-hero.tumblr.com/post/189729695522/he-makes-love-letters-origami-he-will-never-send)

Draco loves to write.

Not fictions, as much as he likes reading, he has no interest in creating new worlds or people and makes them do things that he has to think up. He loves to write – about himself. Because even at the stage of innocence, Draco always thought he is the most interesting person there are.

From age ten, he filled journals and journals. Diary, of sorts. Besides recording his (very interesting) life, a lot of them were fragments of musings. Some of them were letters, especially after starting school. Students at the Slytherins common rooms were used to seeing Draco sitting by the fire, by the window, at his desk, on his bed; ornate leather journal and quill in hand. And Draco’s furious hysterics if he were to be interrupted were almost as legendary as his Harry Potter tirade.

He writes as a child, as a teenager, as an adult (only in the legal sense) then as a man. His page span from thick, traditional journal to loose parchments bound together to cheap muggle paper notebooks. His handwriting went from carefully constructed individual letters to arrogant cursive to frantic scribbles – so illegible and so obviously written in the dark; finally, to smooth and soft curves; reveries about boys and healing. 

Draco writes until he’s twenty-seven, ten years out of the war, with old enemies turned new friends and old friends turned family and family turned ghosts surrounding him when someone asks if they could see his works? 

What works, Draco asks.

Apparently, this agent is friend with Blaise and he has raved about Draco’s _bel-esprit_ , how interesting his perspective was on the war, the struggles he went through to overcome his beliefs, what a romantic he secretly is –

Draco sends a stinging hex to Blaise who is lurking somewhere in the crowd and tells the agent no.

It is Ginevra who gets him to change his mind, as always. She wants kids, and she says Draco telling his side and how he changed is valuable for their world to see what to look out for. Plus some ridiculous sentiment about inherent goodness that Draco has no intention to remember but gets convinced anyway.

He has to dig out his journals. He still writes, about whatever he fancies, but the old ones were left in his childhood bedroom in places he frequented as a child but no longer remembers now. An _Accio_ has all of them flying out of a loose floorboard that Draco only then remembers he pried loose himself because that’s where people hide things in books.

Reading through them is shameful. Reading through them with the agent is embarrassing, but her eyes lit up frequently and her nose sometimes scrunches in distaste, then she just keeps crying, after the first five years of journals. She asks if he wants to organize them in chronological order, or —?

That’s a loaded question. Draco doesn’t know. There are diaries, notes, ideas, thoughts, letters. The agent sifts through everything and decides that the diaries can be in chronological order, in their own section. And everything else they will go through and divide them into sections.

Draco squeaks when he realizes she wants to publish everything and argues that no one wants to read a behemoth of a book. She says a behemoth of memories is a good thing.

Draco isn’t sure anyone will read it. Who will want to read a brat’s diary? Who wants to read a Death Eater (he was still one when some of these were written)’s thoughts?

But people do. They line up outside of shops. Owls tire themselves from deliveries. On request of Pansy, who sees this as golden opportunity to make some pretty gold, pesters Draco for stocks of his book and sell them to people who didn’t manage to get one on the first day.

All of this disconcerts Draco, who once upon of time would no doubt love this. Though, as much as he loves to talk even now, these were the talkings that he hadn’t been brave enough to say. He has thought no one would be interested, now the reality is that everyone knows.

Draco writes all of this down.

He asks for time off work. 

Harry comes knocking, just a few days later. Draco knows it’s coming, still he trembles when he goes to greet him at the door. Harry hasn’t finished reading the book yet, can he finish the rest here? Draco nods, let Harry sits on his bed as Draco takes his seat at the desk. Harry opens the book, and Draco knows where he’s at by the thickness of the two halves. The diaries are done and he is on the miscellany. Draco turns. Harry’s face gives nothing away but Draco knows, he knows, Harry is reading the section titled “Love Letters”.

“Love Letters” starts with a short note, written by Draco five years of age, to a boy he met at a gathering his father used to have. “Love Letters” isn’t typed but had images of the original letters (done by Scan-ing, or something). “Love Letters” consists of notes and origamis addressed to a variety of people: Blaise, Remus Lupin, Penelope Clearwater, some Quidditch star Draco can’t even remember the name of except for the way the man’s brown eyes honeyed under the sun. These love letters comprised less than half of “Love Letters”. “Love Letters” is originally named “Draco Malfoy’s embarrassing crush on Harry Potter (Potter!)”

Draco used up his only veto for that.

Most of them don’t even read like someone in love. Most of them read like hate mails, bullying and sniping. But Draco is the one that wrote them and he knows what they had meant. A lot of them were heavily creased, because they were folded into origami animals. When Draco first found them, he had to be so careful opening up, old from the years, they wouldn’t have survived rough treatment. There are a smattering of letters written when Draco was thirteen and fourteen where he expressed genuine heartache that he wasn’t friends with Harry; an explosion of anguish, written when Draco was sixteen and seventeen; then finally, eighteen, cluster of letters, slow and sweet, like fruits overly ripe. Accounts of Harry’s struggles and victories after the war. (One letter embarrassingly detailed the shape of Harry’s chiseled jawline in far too many words). There’s one where Draco spent a full parchment talking to Harry about his sudden aptitude in schoolwork and how much Draco likes it because he has always appreciated intelligence in men. Draco had written those like the letters were meant to be seen by a lover. But he never did, even though Harry and he had been friendly by then already. 

The fact that the book omitted any names doesn’t matter because the author is Draco and he practically founded the Potter-mania. Plus most of the letters mentioned green eyes and long lashes.

But Harry doesn’t seem upset at being written into letters then into a book that got published for the whole wizarding world to see. Ten years has mellowed the public’s affection for Harry into a simmering haze; something Draco can’t comprehend whatsoever. 

Harry shuts the book gently and asks if he could see them. Draco has to pretend he doesn’t know what Harry is asking about. Then he lies and says they’re at the publishing house. Harry tells him that Draco would never leave something so personal at places like that, if he has to guess, is it somewhere beneath the floorboard based on Draco’s love for old romance novels?

Draco protests and grumbles and goes to pry the floorboard up, but Harry stops him before his nails make contact with the wood. Harry delicately grasps Draco’s hands and murmurs _let me_ and before Draco can even blink his haze away, his journals, notes, and letters are in Harry’s reverent hands. He picks out the crumble letters that show it has been folded and unfolded until it’s bruised and loved. He traces the “P” of every letter, always the first, and always written with the most vigor.

I noticed these, Harry says.

Draco doesn’t understand what that means. 

You used to fold them in class, Harry says. I noticed.

Then he grabs his copy of Draco’s book and takes something out – a piece of parchment that has been folded and unfolded until it’s bruised and loved. Harry holds it out.

It’s Harry. On a broom, smiling until a bulger hits him. Draco’s eyes seek out the messy hair that a thirteen-year-old Draco had drawn on one strand at a time, tenderly despite the end product. And the arrogant cursive of his sighed name in the corner. And the little lone figure in the otherwise empty Quidditch stands, laughing and looking at Drawing-Harry.

Draco says this is embarrassing. Harry laughs and tells him it’s okay. Draco then scoffs and clarifies it’s embarrassing for _Harry_ , who keeps a drawing of themselves getting hit in the head? Then Harry is kissing him, cradling him in his arms like he did the parchment, which is surprising because Draco has been folded and unfolded until he is bruised, but he never thinks he can be loved, too. 

Against Draco’s lips, Harry says he wants to finish Draco’s embarrassing book. He wants to know if there’s a happy ending. 

Draco spoils his own book by telling Harry there isn’t. The book only goes until he was twenty-five-years old. Which wasn’t a bad year, just a difficult year. Draco folds himself up so he can fit in Harry’s embrace better and tells him _it’s okay._

Harry sounds genuinely upset when he says _how can it be okay?_

Draco kisses Harry, and again, and again, until his lips are sore and flushed and Harry looks a little less sad. Draco kisses him quicky again because — well, just because. Because the book ends, but it’s not the ending, Draco says.

Harry asks how will it end. Draco shrugs and says he doesn’t know.

Harry says his _fine_ petulantly and wraps Draco tighter in his arms. He opens Draco’s book again and presses his cheek to Draco’s hair when Draco tucks his face into the crook of Harry’s neck. Harry kisses Draco’s hair and says, I guess I’ll just have to stick around and find out.


End file.
